


Fever dream

by Shotgun_Cake



Series: Flavors of lust [4]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sauna, Smut, That's it you got the gist of it two great friends go to the sauna together to relax, and they do indeed ''relax''
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26941273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/pseuds/Shotgun_Cake
Summary: Andrés catches himself staring. Again. He shakes his head and plasters on a smile, turning his attention back to Martín. To Martín's face, specifically. Just his face this time.~~~OR: two platonic friends enjoying a day of relaxation at the sauna. Martín’s body looks soft and highly squishable. What a shame Andrés is straight.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: Flavors of lust [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884799
Comments: 30
Kudos: 100





	Fever dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/gifts).



> My dear friend [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap) once told me _“Martín and Andrés in a sauna: go”_
> 
> But she’s not the boss of me so, obviously, I didn’t write it. This is something else entirely.

This was a bad idea. 

And Andrés is the one to blame. It was his suggestion to come here in the first place. To spend a lazy afternoon at the sauna. A real sauna, not one of those filthy places Martín is used to frequenting, for entirely different reasons. 

So it was his idea, and he's already lost his enthusiasm about this place, about this opportunity to relax in the heat, in the steam, with his dear friend by his side. 

He's not relaxed right now. More agitated than ever. Martín hasn't noticed his unease, thankfully. He's still talking, and Andrés is trying to pay attention to his words. It's pretty interesting, actually. He's always interested in what Martín has to say. In the sharpness of his jaw too, the curve of his mouth when he talks about something that makes him smile. The movements of his arms, of his hands, when he's passionate about a topic. Droplets of sweat are coursing, streaming down his chest, dancing over flushed skin. 

And that's when Andrés catches himself staring. Again. 

He shakes his head and plasters on a smile, turning his attention back to Martín. To Martín's face, specifically. Just his face this time.

Damp and flushed too. With his messy hair sticking to his forehead.

Martín is talking about thermodynamics, and how the heating system of the sauna works towards keeping the room so hot and steamy. 

“It's such a delicate balance, to maintain the perfect temperature, the perfect level of humidity–”

“The perfect amount of light, too”, Andrés chimes in. 

When his friend squints at him, confused, he adds: “For the _atmosphere,_ Martín. You wouldn't want to go to a place with bright neon lights and see all those bodies around us in nauseating detail, would you? Well, actually, _you_ probably would.”

Martín laughs at his joke – his provocation – and eventually nods, a sheepish smile still on his face. 

“Well– you're not wrong about that. But I get your point. Dim lighting in a sauna makes all the difference. Darkness keeps the mind at ease. And sets the mood...”

Martín wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and Andrés laughs with him. Just a little forced. He's finding himself hooked on Martín's every word. 

Hooked, too, on the way his chest heaves when he laughs, making his stomach, his lovely soft belly, tremble from his shaky breaths. But that's not what Andrés has been staring at. 

As Martín leans back against the wall, eyes closed, carefree, Andrés finds himself looking at his chest again. He doesn't know why. He never thought a man's– pectorals, would be of such interest to him. 

But they are, apparently. From the moment they exited the locker room together, Andrés hasn't been able to think of anything else. 

Which is ridiculous. Andrés has always liked women. Loved them, actually. Women, and women's bodies, and women's breasts. He likes the mystery about them, the discovery. He likes looking at them, holding them in his hands, soft and plump. 

A man's chest, there's no mystery. No appeal to it. That’s why there’s no taboo in baring it in public. 

And still.

Seeing Martín shirtless feels like intruding. Like something only a lover should see, and yet, Andrés gets to see it too. His soft curves. Not like a woman's, definitely not. But his build is interesting. He has narrow shoulders for a man, and fuller hips, too. Andrés can see one of them poking under the seam of his towel. 

And most interestingly, Martín has a soft chest. Well, a soft- _looking_ chest. Andrés doesn’t know how it would actually feel, he can only assume. Martín’s boyfriends must like that about him, don't they? Seeing him shirtless, touching him there... It looks– not plump, no. Not feminine, in any way. Not fat either. 

Andrés doesn't know the word he's looking for. 

And he doesn't know why it matters so much to him, all of a sudden. 

Martín props a foot on the bench, and rests his elbow on his bent knee as he speaks again, animatedly. No matter how captivating his words, how delightful the sound of his voice, Andrés gets sidetracked again. 

Martín looks relaxed in here, he appears in his element. Andrés is quite surprised, he half expected to see him all flustered and quiet; embarrassed to find himself so exposed, in close proximity to so many half-naked men. 

In close proximity to Andrés.

But he doesn't squirm. He is quite flushed, yes – his cheeks, his neck, part of his chest – but that's clearly from the heat. Andrés knows his skin is paler that Martín's, he's probably just as red, if not more. But Martín doesn't seem uncomfortable. He doesn't look around nervously, doesn't stumble over his words. He just rests his head against his hand and looks over at Andrés, peacefully, as he explains to him that this is actually a pretty weak sauna, that the temperature only nears eighty degrees, while in the Nordic countries it can rise up to one hundred. For those who can handle it.

Andrés cannot handle it. 

The temperature. 

Martín's body. 

His composure. 

He cannot handle it, because it shouldn't be. Because, Andrés realizes, he's not just surprised to find Martín so unaffected by their surroundings. No. 

Andrés is disappointed. 

He wanted to see him squirm. He wanted to _make_ him squirm. He still does. 

And now, staring at his chest, letting his eyes roam further down, to the folds of the towel over Martín's crotch, the way it's draped over his thighs–

Andrés was mistaken. He hasn't been looking at Martín _too much._ If anything, he didn't look enough. Not just today. For a long time. 

He looks at him now, and it truly feels like, up to this point, Andrés hadn't been looking as all. 

And now that he has, he can't stop. He wants to see. He wants more.

Martín’s voice pipes up again, and he doesn’t catch what he says.

“Hmm?”, is Andrés’s very articulate answer.

“I said, are you alright?”, he repeats, a frown on his face. “You look hot.”

When Andrés smirks, Martín mirrors him, deliberately letting his eyes dart down Andrés’s body.

“Fuck you, you know what I mean. Is it too hot in here? You’re a bit red. If you're not comfortable, we can move to a different room.”

The little shit is taunting him.

“I’m doing just fine. Do _you_ want to leave?”

Martín winks at him and that’s enough of an answer. 

Andrés leans back on the bench, stretching like a lazy cat. As he looks around, he realizes that they’re alone in the sauna. He doesn’t know when the last person left, but the steamy room is empty, save for the two of them. 

“Oh, nice!”

So it seems Martín hadn't noticed either. Interesting.

Maybe...

He stands up abruptly, holding onto his towel before it slides off his hips. He walks across the room, heat coursing through his body, rising to his head.

Andrés gets to the door and finds his hands are almost shaking when he grabs the lever. He composes himself, pulls the bar to the side, and locks the door from the inside. 

When he returns to the bench, he doesn’t take a seat again. Martín is standing as well, and eyeing Andrés curiously.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“If anyone asks, I'll just pay extra to have it privatized.”

“Sure”, Martín says, confusion clear on his face. “But why?”

Andrés is staring again. This time he's not trying to hide it. 

“I think you know why.”

Martín gulps under the intensity of his gaze. He looks like a deer in headlights and no matter how charming that is, how tempting it is for Andrés to just do as he pleases, he doesn’t want Martín like that. Like another pretty thing to take. To use for himself. 

Shit, he does want him like that too.

But it’s Martín, so he won’t. 

Even though he’s pretty sure he could.

“I want to touch you.”

The words just come out, and Andrés shouldn’t be surprised by how hoarse his voice is.

“I'm– I'm sorry?”, Martín stutters, his eyes impossibly wider.

There’s something on his face, in the curve of his mouth, the lines on his forehead when he frowns. In the way his features twist into a mixture of emotions, so deep, so complex. It should be immortalized by a classical painter. The lighting is fitting too. 

_Clairoscuro,_ as the Dutch would say. Darkness and steam all around them, and then skin. And then Martín. Light and open.

Hopeful.

He’s such a perfect gift, Andrés doesn’t actually _ask._

“I'm going to touch you.”

“Okay.”

How lovely. _Okay._ He’s not saying anything else, doesn't even ask for an explanation, and Andrés likes that about him. He likes it quite a lot. The stillness of his body. The fervor in his eyes.

Andrés slowly lays both of his hands on Martín’s shoulders. There’s a rush of electricity under his palms when they meet the burning skin. 

Martín whimpers at the touch and Andrés doesn’t address it, he only looks at his hands and what they’re doing.

Martín’s shoulders don’t feel as narrow as they look. And his skin is indeed soft. Damp with sweat, which isn’t unpleasant. It makes things more intimate.

Andrés doesn’t leave his hands in one place for too long. He lets his fingers slide down Martín’s arms, and then his sides. He can feel his breathing there, around his waist. Uneven, strained. His touches grow firmer whenever Martín tenses under his hands, when his breath hitches, when he shivers. Andrés commits it all to memory, the sentitive spots, the texture under his fingers, as though learning Martín's skin.

He knows there’s a grin on his face. He knows, too, that Martín is looking at him with that troubled stare he sometimes gets. But he doesn’t stop him, so Andrés lets his hands roam further. His touch, his gaze on Martín, feel lecherous. Because they are. He's getting close to Martín's towel, wrapped low around his hips.

One of his thumbs digs into Martín’s stomach just a little, the tender flesh of his belly there. Martín flinches at that, and Andrés doesn’t need to look up to know he’s embarrassed. That he doesn’t understand his curiosity. 

His enthusiasm.

Andrés doesn’t understand it either. But he’s starting to get hard, and that should be worrying. It isn’t. He’s almost going on instinct. 

At last, he moves his hands up Martín’s torso and caresses the smooth skin of his chest. His palms laying flat against his pecs. 

Andrés closes his eyes then, lets his hands press and hold. Consciously or not, Martín leans against his touch, and Andrés wants to laugh.

This is ridiculous, but he’s almost _relieved_ right now.

He wanted to know what it would be like, to feel him there, and now he does. He feels his heat, his softness. The restless pounding of his heartbeat. He feels it all, and it’s everything he hoped it would be. It's even more. 

It’s intoxicating. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Martín’s voice is breathy, almost a whisper, but his tone is firm.

When Andrés opens his eyes again, he finds him frowning. He looks displeased. 

He looks scared.

“Do you want me to stop?”

The question is sincere. Martín’s body did seem to respond to his touch, but Andrés needs to be sure.

“Listen, if this is about– about how my body _looks,_ just–”

Martín bites his lip, nearly averts his eyes before catching himself. Andrés has never seen him like that. He drags a hand down Martín’s chest again, grasping firmly at his hip. Pulling him closer. 

“What about the way your body looks, um?”

Martín gasps and bats his hand away. Angrily. 

“What the fuck, Andrés? I get it, you’ve been single for a while, but you can’t just do _that._ Go on a date if you’re lonely, okay? Don’t resort to–”

Andrés raises two fingers to Martín’s mouth and shushes him. He doesn’t know what he likes better. Shutting him up. Or brushing his fingers against his lips. 

He lays his other hand on Martín’s chest again.

“I'm not touching you there and picturing a woman, Martín. I am– intrigued, specifically because you _don't_ look like a woman. You don't feel like one either. Not there. Not anywhere.”

Martín sighs, as though beaten by those words. 

“I know.”

Andrés hates to see that look on his face. To be the cause of it. Most of all, he hates to see Martín so lost, so distressed, with Andrés’s hands still on his skin. 

“You don't look like a woman”, Andrés repeats. “I know that.”

“But?”

“But–”

Andrés grabs Martín's hand and slowly brings it to his own crotch, over his towel. Martín doesn't even look down. He holds his gaze with wide eyes as he feels Andrés's erection. 

Martín doesn't take his hand away, but he's frozen in place. Andrés takes advantage of that to move his hand, the one still on Martín's hip. He slides his fingers under the towel and grabs his ass, loving how soft it feels under his touch, yet how firm when he squeezes. Martín moans and Andrés just grabs the towel and pulls it off him.

Martín, as expected, is just as hard as he is.

Andrés takes a good look at his cock, shamelessly gawking really, and he must admit he's quite surprised. By how much he likes what he sees. He never thought he'd want to look at another man's penis, not unless it was on a statue, on a painting, but this? This is real. Flesh and blood, right in front of him. This is Martín. And it seems, once again, that Andrés cannot look away. 

Martín takes back the hand that was still pressed against Andrés's towel and gently cups his face.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

Andrés smiles at him.

Yes. Yes, he wants this. He wants him. 

Somehow, saying it is harder than doing it. His hands on Martín, it's instinctive. Easy as breathing. But telling him _I want you, I want to touch you, I want to kiss you._ That's unnerving. Nerve-wracking. He looks at Martín's eager eyes, his pretty pink lips, and Andrés's mouth tingles to close the distance. This is the precipice, this is the leap, if he can, if he dares–

“Fuck it!”

Andrés hears the grunt that leaves his throat before he realizes that Martín took that leap for him – so passionate, so brave – and crashed his lips against his. 

It’s an experience. 

His lips are hot just like the rest of him, they're soft, and they don't demand. They give and do not take. 

Martín is naked, he's hard, Andrés is still holding his hips, feeling his burning skin under his palms, and yet his kiss is not urgent in any way. It's a different kind of passion. 

He was so ready to disrobe for him, not shy in baring his body, but his lips, they're timid. Hesitant. Martín kisses him slowly, as though Andrés is a scared little thing. A wide-eyed ingenue that needs to be coaxed, that could run away anytime, that could escape him if he let go. 

And maybe that’s exactly what he is. But he's not going anywhere. 

Kissing Martín, holding him. This feels natural. This feels so _obvious._ Andrés wonders why they haven’t been doing it all this time. 

But this isn’t what needs to be addressed right now.

Barely breaking their kiss, he turns them around and cups Martín's ass with both hands to motion him closer. He understands and, as soon as Andrés sits down, Martín is on him, straddling his lap, his knees on either side of him on the bench. His weight on Andrés's thighs is quite pleasant, as are his legs framing his hips, his chest pressed flush against his. His touch, his skin, are everywhere. They’re all Andrés can feel. His towel is the only thing left between them.

Martín seems to be studying his face. His lips are still pressed to his, moving just a little. Andrés meets his eyes and slides his tongue into his mouth, eliciting a whimper, a little sound of surprise. Martín immediately moves his tongue against his, and that reaction makes Andrés groan with delight. 

He wonders if Martín can feel his cock twitch between them, how hard he is for him, how much his body responds to his touch.

Martín’s eyes are incredibly dark, his pupils blown, his mouth so pliant for him. Andrés is positive that, in this instant, he could ask anything from him. Anything at all, and Martín would go with it, would _obey._ His docility is almost as delightful as the texture of his skin under Andrés’s hands, the caress of his tongue against his.

The tentative friction of Martín's cock, pressed between them.

He can feel it against his bare stomach, just above the seam of the towel, and it should be odd. Maybe it is. But he enjoys the pressure against his skin, the mark of his desire. Andrés wants to feel more of that. He wants to feel it everywhere. 

He ends the kiss and takes Martín's hands away from his face. He places them both on his own towel, looking at him intently, and revels in the way Martín's breath catches in his throat.

“Andrés, _fuck..._ ”

This time Martín doesn't hesitate. He slides his fingers under the towel and opens it, shamelessly looking down at Andrés's body, at his throbbing erection, at the way their naked bodies look next to each other.

Andrés squeezes Martín's ass again, pulls him closer, and when their cocks brush, both of their groans echo in the empty room. The desire, the pleasure, are thrilling and terrifying. This is too much, too intense, and Andrés doesn’t know how to do this. He just knows he wants to keep feeling Martín against him.

How they do it is not important. They can do things properly later.

Later, yes. He likes the sound of that.

Andrés’s mind stops racing when Martín looks straight into his eyes, brings a hand to his mouth and starts licking his own palm. 

It’s one of the most shameless things Andrés has even seen.

Martín takes his time, too, does it slowly, repeatedly. Andrés stares at his tongue running over his skin, a spectacle and a provocation. 

He makes a show of it until his palm, his fingers, are coated with saliva. 

Martín smiles at him then, for a split second, and before Andrés can ponder over what it means, the slick hand is wrapped around his cock and he can’t focus on anything else. 

This is _good._ An act so simple, so trivial. It has no right to be this good. Martín caresses him with slow, precise movements, and before long he puts his other hand on him too, as though engulfing him. 

Andrés has never felt that. 

It isn’t just his technique, though it is quite something. Besides his own, he’s not used to having hands so large touching him. He doesn’t hate that image either.

Martín grips him just tight enough, doesn’t go too fast yet, and still, Andrés’s thighs are tensing, and he’s letting his head fall forward, groaning almost uncontrollably into Martín’s neck. It is without a doubt the best handjob Andrés ever received. Even better than when he touches himself. 

He never particularly liked having someone else do it. He would rather ask for a blowjob, for sex, but this? The way he twists his wrists on every stroke, the little whimpers he lets out, so focused on Andrés pleasure, and yet so obviously enjoying it.

Or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s _Martín_ doing this for him. It’s eye opening. Many things are, today. 

Without much thought, Andrés wraps a loose hand around Martín’s cock and strokes him too. He starts slowly, and he enjoys the discovery that this is. How new this feels, how thrilling. Simply put, he enjoys touching Martín. Even there. 

Especially with how responsive Martín is, the way he moans and rocks his hips against his hand. He’s trying to be careful, Andrés can tell, but he’s so greedy. 

Andrés gives him more. 

He tightens his fist, flicks his wrist a little faster. He slides his other hand lower between Martín’s thighs and cups his balls, caresses them with curious fingers. 

Martín whimpers and falls forward, his forehead pressed to Andrés’s shoulder.

“Please, don't...”

“Doesn’t it feel nice?”

“Of course it feels _nice”,_ he mutters, still not looking at him. “But you really– you really don’t have to touch me _there._ Or anywhere.”

Martín is breathing heavily against him and Andrés keeps caressing him. 

He realizes Martín is struggling to keep stroking him, his movements are faster, more erratic.

It doesn’t matter. 

With his thumb, he smears the precome on the head of Martín's cock, mixed with sweat on his skin.

Andrés is struck by the wild impulse to _taste him._

This is new.

He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, and instead leans in and presses his lips to Martín’s neck again. His tongue slides across damp skin, a little salty, and Martín suddenly tenses, tilting his head back. This was clearly an involuntary reaction, but it does give him better access to the apparently very sensitive skin of his neck, and so Andrés presses kisses there more firmly. He lets his teeth scrape against his jaw, feels under his lips the tension in his muscles, the way he gulps, how fast he’s breathing.

Andrés twists his wrist and gets another moan out of him. If this is how loud he is when Andrés is touching his cock, he wonders which sounds he’d draw from his mouth if he were actually fucking him. 

“I can’t”, Martín whines. “I can’t take care of you when you do this. It’s okay, you can stop touching me.”

“Not a chance.”

Andrés rubs at the head of his cock and Martín whimpers again. He shakes his head.

“Fine, then at least let me suck you off. Please?”

He’s not offering, that’s the beauty of it. 

He’s asking for Andrés’s permission. He’s asking, with twitching fingers, with pleading looks. 

Oh, Andrés wants him to. He looks at his parted lips, kissed swollen, and he’s already imagining them wrapped around his cock, with those fervent eyes looking up at him. 

“You’re staying right where you are.”

Martín looks _pained_ and Andrés can’t help but to kiss him again.

He wants his lips, his tongue, he wants to know what it’s like to experience a masterful blowjob from an experienced man. He wants to sink into his pliant mouth and to be pleasured, to be worshipped by him. 

But not as much as he wants to touch him right now. So Andrés grasps Martín’s hip and firmly holds him in place before he can move. This position is too enticing, Martín straddling his thighs, where Andrés can see all of him, where he can keep his hands on his body. His fingers are digging into the flesh around his hip, soft and tender, and Martín squirms a little, but he lets him. 

He always lets him. 

Andrés basks in this moment for a while. The tension, the anticipation. He knows how transparent he’s being, too. How his breath hitches, just looking at him. 

He allows his eyes to tell Martín what the rest of him fails to articulate. 

When Martín looks away, Andrés lets his hand roam again. 

He grips both of their cocks with one hand and tentatively presses them together.

This. Yes. This feels right.

He starts stroking, and Martín hips are shaking too, angling towards his hand. His desperation, his quiet need. It's exquisite.

Martín wraps his fingers around Andrés’s, around them, and together they slide this makeshift fist around their cocks. 

It’s not perfect. Andrés never wants them to stop. 

He leans towards Martín and bumps his forehead against his, briefly meets his eyes before they both look down, where they’re connected so beautifully. Their cocks are moving up and down inside their joined hands, swollen, pressed together. It's indecent. It's hypnotic. Neither of them can look away. 

Martín keeps groaning. Or maybe Andrés does. Their faces are so close, the noises of their pleasure blend together as one. And there’s the slick, sloppy sound of skin rubbing skin, damp with saliva, with sweat, with precome too.

Andrés speeds up his movements. He should try to make this last, but he can’t. He’s transfixed in what he sees, what he hears, and he can’t help but to chase that feeling, to seek more.

“Andrés, please...”

He doesn’t know what Martín is asking for. Andrés is so far gone, he figures it must be the same for him. Desperation. Need for release.

“Look at me.”

He only recognizes his own voice after the words are spoken. Martín meets his eyes again, and Andrés has rarely felt so weak. 

His arm is aching, the rolling of his hips has grown erratic. He holds onto Martín, the grounding pressure of his forehead, the heady scent of sex and sweat between them, carnal, obscene. 

At last they topple over the edge. 

Martín lets go first, not by much, but he does. He stills in his arms and Andrés simply thrusts against him, against his throbbing member and his come, spurting on them both. 

Their cocks keep sliding together deliciously, and it's Martín's trembling hand that brings Andrés to orgasm. 

Andrés comes holding onto him. Touching, grasping him wherever he can. 

For a while, it’s quiet.

It’s labored breaths against scalding hot skin.

And between them, the weight of what happened. 

It almost feels like a fever dream. His or Martín’s? Andrés couldn’t tell. Maybe it’s all the same.

Martín snaps out of it first.

He stands up and rushes to wipe Andrés’s stomach with one of their discarded towels, and Andrés closes his eyes for a while, laughing softly. Martín is ever so helpful. So _careful,_ still. 

When Martín is done and slowly sits next to him, Andrés shifts to lie down on his back. He’s completely spent and his body is growing limp, here sprawled onto the bench. He welcomes it.

His mind should be restless, considering what he just did. With whom he did it. But Andrés just feels– he isn’t sure exactly. He does know there is no point in ruining his afterglow by pondering over the big questions. They’ll do that later for sure. 

But for now he just wants to relax. To embrace this deep sense of peace, of ease, coursing through him. Body and mind. He could fall asleep like that. 

“I think we should start coming here more often”, he mutters distractedly. “Heat is very therapeutic for us, don’t you think?”

“Sure, why not...”

Something in Martín’s voice alarms him. A distance that shouldn’t be there. An absence.

He opens his eyes and looks up at Martín, sitting right next to Andrés’s head on his end of the bench. He doesn’t turn towards Andrés and keeps staring at the wall in front of him, his hands carefully folded over his lap, looking utterly lost. Unsure.

And he has a towel wrapped around his hips again, which is simply ridiculous. Andrés didn't bother.

“Martín?”

He flinches when he feels Andrés’s hand on his thigh.

“You think too much.”

Martín doesn’t reply. 

After a few strained seconds, there’s a hesitant hand on Andrés’s head. Fingers threading in his hair, massaging his scalp. He closes his eyes again, almost purrs at how nice it feels. And he knows where that hand has been, but, well... Martín knows how to please him, in many different ways.

Without looking at him, Andrés speaks again.

“If I were you, I’d take this time to lie down too. Give your body a chance to relax.”

“Why?”

Andrés smiles.

“I believe we should get some rest. You and I won’t catch a lot of sleep tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot was inspired by boom slap’s [VERY INTERESTING DRAWING](https://twitter.com/boom_slap/status/1308335966281699328?s=20), as well as her tasty headcanons.
> 
> My other main source of inspiration is of course Rodrigo’s wonderful squishy body. 
> 
> Catch me thirsting… 👀  
>  **@[ _shotgun-cake_](https://shotgun-cake.tumblr.com)** on Tumblr  
>  **@[ _Shotgun_Cake_](https://twitter.com/Shotgun_Cake?s=09)** on Twitter


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